


Pulse

by littlespider9



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Electrocution, Gen, Headcanon Setup, Hurt Napoleon, Hurt/Comfort, Illya is confused by emotions, partners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-08 17:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11086866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlespider9/pseuds/littlespider9
Summary: In the aftermath of Uncle Rudi, Illya is confused and a hurting Solo teaches him that the heart is a fragile thing. Cross posted on Fanfiction.net





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic right after the 2015 MFU film came out and have been returning to it here and there ever since. It's the first fic in my developing MFU headcanon and was originally posted on FanFiction.net. I've made a few edits and thought I'd post it here.
> 
> Enjoy!

The tired, underpaid guard never saw it coming. Illya struck swiftly and silently, striking the man at the junction point between his neck and head with the edge of one large hand. The man didn’t even grunt, just dropped like a stone.

Stepping over the crumpled body of the guard, Illya peered through the grimy window into the adjacent chamber. A beat later, his face hardened into a frown.

Napoleon Solo, that arrogant son-of-a-bitch American, was secured to a battered-looking metal chair by leather straps across his forehead and around his wrists. It seemed wrong to see the man who had for so long evaded capture so definitely secured. And yet, Illya reflected as he watched Solo’s body convulse and jerk uncontrollably, the straps were probably all that were keeping him upright and off the floor. Illya watched as blood dripped from Solo’s nose, the air around him crackling with electricity. The faint smell of smoke reached the Russian’s nose.

Illya could feel the world around him fading out of existence, replaced only by the thrumming of his own pulse in his ears. His hands clenched into fists and his vision tunneled around Uncle Rudi, the little man with glasses and a receding hairline that sat to the side, watching Solo’s torture with a little too much glee. One finger tapping against this leg, Illya knew he wanted to kill this man.

Not because the American meant anything to him, of course. No, Illya didn’t have friends and, even if he did, Solo certainly wasn’t one of them. But the American had saved his life and Illya always repaid his debts.

Unleashing his fury, Illya burst through the swinging doors, startling little Uncle Rudi. The old man looked up at the massive Russian in sudden fear just half a second before Illya’s fist collided with his jaw, knocking him off his chair and onto the floor. Rudi yelped pathetically when Illya reached down, picked the smaller man up by the shirt collar, and pinned him against the wall with a massive forearm pressed against his throat.

“Please,” Rudi gasped, his voice tight and high from the strain. Illya was close enough to see the sweat beaded on his upper lip. “You don’t need to use threats or pain with me. I’ll tell you anything you want!”

A madman and a weasel. Illya’s lip curled upwards in disgust and he forcefully slammed Rudi’s head backwards into the wall. The old man sagged forward against his arm, unconscious. “I deal with you later.”

Only now, with the torturer down for the count, did Illya’s pulse start to slow and the rest of the world start to come back into focus. Almost immediately he became aware that Solo had not stopped convulsing and that the chair he was strapped to was still coursing electricity through his body, even without its operator. Illya stepped closer and, ignoring the blood now pooling on Solo’s upper lip, turned his attention to the massive tangle of cables on the floor around the chair. What a mess. It was impossible to distinguish which wires were essential to the chair’s functionality and which were not.

So Illya did what any resourceful agent would have done. He gathered the mass of wires in both of his large hands and with one swift yank pulled all of them out of their various connections.

It seemed to work, because the electrical tension in the air dissipated and Solo’s convulsing slowed to a sporadic twitch. Satisfied, Illya kicked the wires to the side and tapped Solo on none too lightly on the face before getting to work on the restraints. “Oi, Cowboy, are you with me?”

Solo didn’t show any sign of response, his eyes closed and his face oddly slack. Illya slapped him again, putting a little more force behind the blow. “Cowboy?”

The force of Illya’s blow had Solo slouching farther down in his seat now that he was freed from his restraints. There was something boneless and lifeless about the movement that had Illya inching even closer to press two fingers against the American’s carotid.

After five beats of silence Illya was forced to admit that there was no pulse beneath his fingers.

Cursing violently in his native tongue, Illya maneuvered the bulky American onto the ground where he laid him out flat. As he laced his fingers together and began to pump Solo’s chest over his heart in a steady rhythm, Illya noticed the dirt and grime that covered the floor clinging to the crisp white of Solo’s dress shirt. Had Solo begin conscious - no, _alive_ \- this would have bothered him greatly. The thought made Illya strike Solo’s chest with unnecessary force in desperate frustration.

And just like that, the stubborn American gasped and then, choking on the musty bunker air, broke into a harsh coughing fit. Illya rolled Solo onto his side even as he checked his pulse again. There it was, a bit thready and a little too fast, but still there. Illya let his own head sag against his chest in relief.

“Napoleon, that was too close. You - ” Illyah cut himself off sharply, biting back the words he’d been about to say. _You had me worried._ Illya was actually surprised to find this was true. When had that damn American slipped past his defenses so entirely?

Thankfully, Solo didn’t seem to notice. He mumbled something, his words slurred and hard to distinguish. “...mother…”

“What?” Illya asked, brows knitting together in concern. Maybe Solo had been gone for too long, the electricity had scrambled his brain…

Solo coughed once more and tried again, his blue eyes fluttering open. “Only my mother calls me N’pleon.”

“Cowboy, then,” Illya replied, letting a little sigh of relief escape out his lips. “Can you move?”

Solo gave a short nod and grasped the Russian agent’s hand, allowing himself to be hauled to his feet. Once he was up, Solo sucked in a sharp breath and squeezed his eyes shut, dizzy from the change in elevation. “Peril, why does it feel like an army has marched across my chest?”

Illya simply shrugged, ducking under the shorter man’s shoulder to keep him steady as he swayed slightly. “You were being stubborn.”

Solo spared his companion a glance, alerted by something the Russian’s tone. Illya saw respect and gratitude shining in that blue gaze. Suddenly uncomfortable with the scrutiny, Illya fished a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and handed it over. “Your nose bleeds.”

“Hm.” Illya could feel the rumble of Solo’s voice as it vibrated through the smaller man’s body and into his own. Solo mopped at the blood on his upper lip and glanced around the dim torture chamber. “And what did you do with our Uncle Rudi?”

Illya didn’t say anything, instead gesturing to the motionless old man sprawled on the floor by the door.

Now it was Solo’s turn to frown. “He hit his head, I presume? That’s a shame. I’m sure he could have shared some interesting information with us.”

As if on cue, Rudi groaned and shifted slightly, working his way towards wakefulness. Solo’s otherwise pale face brightened. “I stand corrected. Now, whatever shall we do with him?”

Illya turned to his enemy-turned-partner, a deadly smirk pulling at his mouth. “I think I have an idea.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solo tries to give Illya the slip, in more ways than one.

Even at such a distance, Illya could swear that he felt the residual force of the blast as the aircraft carrier rocked ever so slightly in the swift moving ocean. As far as the Russian agent was concerned, that witch Victoria Vinciguerra got exactly what she deserved.

A few paces over to the side, Waverly gave a sigh of relief that seemed to speak for every man - and woman - in the room. The older British gentleman quirked a lip at Solo in an almost smile. “Well, that’s taken care of. Nicely done, Solo.”

For his part, Napoleon Solo simply gave a short nod, the frown not yet faded from his face. Illya eyed him from the other side of the control room. From what he’d experienced of the American’s colorful personality, Solo would normally have answered with some clever and charming quip as cockiness practically oozed from his pores. Instead, Solo wore a slightly pinched expression, the few lines on his face looking deeper than just the day before.

But before Illya could comment on any of this to his enemy-turned-partner, he felt Gabby stumble slightly at his side, her battered shoulder catching him in the elbow. He reached out to steady her with one large hand and she sent him a grateful look, her lids riding low over tired eyes.

“Gabby?” Illya asked, concern immediately shifting. “Are you okay?”

“Hm,” she hummed softly, shaking her head gently to rouse herself. A single mud-streaked curl freed itself from behind her ear with the movement. “I’m fine, it’s just been… It’s been a long day.”

Suddenly Waverly was hovering at her other side and Illya was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t hit his head harder than he’d thought. He hadn’t even sensed the other man move, let alone approach.

“An understatement if I’ve ever heard one, Miss Teller,” the Englishman commented lightly. Then, with surprising gentleness, Waverly extracted Gaby from Illya’s grip and steered her towards the door. “Why don’t we get you settled in a room and I’ll have a medic see to that shoulder?”

Illya allowed himself to watch until Gaby was lead from the control room, throwing one final glance at him over her shoulder. He had to admit he was impressed with her fast thinking; after all, without her suggestion that they turn on the bomb’s coupling device, the whole situation might have ended completely differently. She was a strong girl and she would bounce back from all of this.

Satisfied that at least one of his teammates would be seen by the medics, Illya turned back to look for Solo only to let out a curse in his native tongue. That slippery American. Even after sustaining such a serious head wound, he had somehow managed to slip past when Illya was distracted. Growling to himself, the Russian stalked out of the control room.

He’d make sure the stubborn Solo got to medical even if Illya had to drag him there himself.

As it turns out, Solo hadn’t made it far; Illya found him out on the deck, seated off to the side with his back pressed against the control room’s outer wall, his head tipped back and his eyes closed. Anyone else might have assumed Solo had simply dozed off, but Illya knew better. He could clearly see the tenseness underneath the slouched posture, the way Solo’s fists were clenched tightly and the vein in his jaw kept jumping. Sweat glistened on his brow, which was still furrowed with discomfort.

With a sigh, Illya eased himself into a crouch beside the American. “Cowboy?”

Solo’s only response was a slight twitch of his eyebrows. Gritting his teeth, Illya tried again. “Cowboy, I know you can hear me. You need to go to medical, get your head checked.”

“Peril, your concern,” Solo’s eyes blinked open momentarily before sliding shut again, “is touching. You’ve got my heart all a flutter.”

Frowning at the American’s words, Illya leaned in closer and pressed two figures against the pulse in Solo’s throat, much as he had when he’d first freed Solo from Rudi’s chair. Sure enough, Solo’s pulse was racing under Illya’s fingertips and there was a slight irregularity to the pattern as well. Illya was by no means a doctor, was in fact far more skilled in killing people than in keeping them alive, but even he knew Napoleon’s heart was not supposed to be doing that.

“So what’s the verdict?” Solo quipped, though his voice was tight and lacking his usual charm. “Buy me a drink?”

“No good, Cowboy,” Illya shook his head, hoisting Solo to his feet and slinging Solo’s arm over his own shoulders. Luckily, he was expecting it when Solo’s knees almost went out on him and managed to keep the American standing with a strong hold on his belt. Solo gave a short grunt of protest.

The aircraft carrier was swarming with men intent on their duties, but they cleared a path for the giant Russian and his nearly unconscious burden. One young officer was kind enough to offer up the direction to the medical bay and Illya rushed off without so much as a thank you. His own heart was doing something funny, making his chest tight and blood rush in his ears as though he’d just finished a fight. He kept thinking back to Rudi’s bunker, to finding Solo slouched in the chair, dead.

That wasn’t going to happen again. Not on Illya’s watch.

When Illya finally burst into the medical bay, all of the heads in the room turned to look at him at once. The closest medic, seeing the failing American at Illya’s side, gestured him towards one of the cots. “What’s happened?”

Illya deposited Solo on the cot and the American immediately curled over on his side, his breath coming in short gasps. As the medic moved to examine Solo, Illya searched for the right words. “His heart is… Он был на электрическом стуле , и его сердце бьется слишком быстро.”

Even when Illya trailed off into Russian, the medic seemed to get the point. Abandoning his perusal of Solo’s head wound, the medic instead reached down to take his pulse. He didn’t need to check his watch to confirm that the American’s heart was pumping too fast and too erratically. “Did you say he’d been electrocuted?”

“Yes.” Illya responded in surprise. Waverly’s men were good.

The medic’s frowned deepened. “And how long has his pulse been racing?”

That Illya could not answer. He grasped Solo’s shoulder roughly and that seemed to rouse the American somewhat. “Cowboy? How long has your heart been fast?”

“O-only for the past three hours or so.” Napoleon answered honestly, grimacing more openly as though the pain was spiking.

The medic looked horrified. “The last thr- well, shit. If this goes on any longer, it’ll kill him. Hey, can I get some Amiodarone over here?”

Another medic came running over with the requested syringe and within seconds they were pulling Solo’s arm flat, trying to get him to relax so they could find a vein. Illya was relegated to standing awkwardly off to the side, listening as the silence filled with the medics brisk murmurings and Solo’s gasping breaths.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one ever claimed that partnership was easy.

“As much as I hate to admit it, you saved me again, Peril.”

Illya shrugged. “Just repaying my debt.”

Solo barked a laugh. “By that logic I now owe you. Clever bastard.”

Seeing the Russian tense at the jab at his father, Solo raised his hands placatingly. “Only an expression, Kuryakin.”

Any further conversation was cut off as a medic stepped between the two agents to dab antiseptic cream on the freshly stitched and newly bleeding divot in Solo’s side. The medics had discovered the wound when removing Solo’s shirt to hook him up to a heart monitor. The original stitches had been ripped out and could be seen poking out of the angry and puckered skin, though Illya was pretty sure the American hadn’t seen any medical attention until now.

The Russian’s look had turned thunderous. “What this that?”

Solo, on the other hand, barely spared the wound a glance. “This? It’s just a graze, Peril.”

While the medics had re cleaned and stitched the American, Illya stewed in his growing frustration. Unless Solo had been involved in activities completely outside of Illya’s knowledge, the American could only have sustained a near bullet wound was during the pair’s visit to the Vincigeurra factory. Illya inwardly cursed himself for not noticing a wound that, just a graze or not, had been bad enough that to require stitiching in the first place.

“Why did you not tell me?”

“I’m a big boy, I can take care of myself.” Solo answered simply, though he took on a confused look when Illya’s frown did not let up. “You’re definitely going soft, Peril.”

“Not soft!” Illya growled at him over the head of the medic. “If we work together, I need to know if you are compromised. You become liability.”

Illya immediately knew that hadn’t come out quite right.

“Then I’m glad we’re through working together.” Solo responded, his face hardening and shutting down. He glanced at the medic who had moved on to prod at the gash in his hair line. “Can we wrap this up?”

“Not so fast,” the medic responded, forcing Solo to sit back on the cot. “Just half half an hour ago your heart was in extreme tachycardia on the verge of cardiac arrest. You’ve got a bullet wound and I need to make sure your skull hasn’t been cracked open. What were you hit with?”

When Napoleon showed no sign of responding, Illya offered up the information instead. “A tire iron. Repeatedly.”

“If you insist on keeping me here,” Solo broke in, his voice firm as he gestured to the infirmary bed with distaste, “then you should at least take a look at that one’s ribs. Wouldn’t want our best Russian puncturing a lung after he was stupid enough to let his motorcycle ride him.”

Illya could think of a few choice responses to the barely restrained hostility in Solo’s voice, but the Russian was nowhere near as frustrating a patient. Instead, he submitted quietly, sitting on a neighboring cot and removing his shirt so another medic could feel along his rib cage for any breaks.

Sure enough, the medics were able to locate the cracked rib that Illya had been doing his best to ignore since he first came to, motorcycle crushing the breath from his lungs. They wrapped his whole torso tightly with a length of bandage before turning to his head wound. It was a bleeder, but thankfully shallow and relatively nonthreatening.

Throughout his examination, Illya sat quietly, preferring instead to eye Solo on the cot opposite him. He knew from experience that Solo didn’t do well with silence, preferring the sound of his own voice, and was confident the American wouldn’t sulk for long.

Solo, on the other hand, didn’t seem to appreciate the scrutiny. He abandoned trying to escape - the medic had called Waverly and returned with a very stern order for the American to stay put - but Solo was clearly uncomfortable under Illya’s gaze. He fidgeted even as the medic cleaned and stitched his head and refused to make eye contact. When the medic finally moved away Solo flopped back down on the cot in what Illya thought was a rather dramatic action, only to immediately roll onto his side so that his back was facing the Russian.

Stubborn American.

Unfortunately for Solo, the change in position did little to quell the intensity of Illya’s gaze. Instead, Illya found himself staring at Solo’s broad, bare back and the scarring he found there. The right side of Napoleon’s back was littered with old burns and pitted skin from what Illya could only imagine came from some serious shrapnel. Which meant, of course, that at some point in his life Solo had been close enough to an explosive that pieces of it had impaled themselves in his flesh when it detonated.

Illya couldn’t quite put his finger on why that thought bothered him so much. Illya himself had several scars; it was impossible to have their lifestyle and avoid them. Perhaps it was because the Napoleon Solo he knew was suave, slick, and immaculate. Illya didn’t want to think of Solo trudging across country borders, falling face first into the mud in a desperate attempt to keep his head from being blown off by enemy soldiers.

“You were a soldier,” Illya murmured, voicing his thoughts aloud.

Solo’s shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t turn around. “What was that, Peril?”

“I said,” Illya cleared his throat, pitching his voice a little louder. “You were a soldier.”

That had Solo up and swinging back around to face Illya, dropping his legs to the floor over the side of his cot. His eyes were burning with something Illya had never seen from the American before, but Illya was too busy scanning the rest of the man’s torso for other scars to care. A slanted line of a scar running over the top of one hip bone. Shrapnel burns running along his ribs on the right, no doubt meeting up with the other scars covering his back. A little circular scar just under his collarbone on the left hand side, a bullet wound.

“You’re damn right, I was a soldier.” Solo growls, his tone bringing Illya’s eyes back up to meet his own. “I’ve seen war and I know damn well that the two of us, on the same side, doesn’t mean anything in the long run. So save some energy and stop pretending you care because, like I said, I can take care of myself.”

As Solo flopped back down on the cot to glare up at the ceiling, Illya could think of nothing to say. If he was completely honest, Illya didn’t quite understand this strange feeling in his chest himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Again, this was just a quick, alternate ending fic and set up for my headcanon, so stayed tuned for more fics soon :)


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